Marching Sands
the spectators faded from his sight, leaving the vision of Gela's set face staring into his own.
In weight and muscle the Wusun had the advantage of his adversary. But Gray was not putting forth his strength to the utmost, knowing that the hold must be changed when Gela tired.
Seeing that he could not snap Gray's spine by sheer weight, Gela shifted his grip swiftly, reaching for a lower hold.
Gray had been waiting for this. As the other released his pressure, he struck. It was a hurried blow, but it jerked back the Wusun's head and rocked him on his feet.
Instantly Gray struck with the other hand. This time his fist traveled farther and Gela fell to the floor.
He was up at once, growling angrily. As he rushed, Gray beat him off coolly—short, telling blows that kept him free from the other's grasp.
"Ho!" laughed Timur, "which is the bullock now? The man has sharp horns."
Gela hesitated, bleeding from nose and mouth. He had never been forced to face a man who was master of such blows. He swayed, gasping with his exertions, his brown head thrust forward from between his wide shoulders.
Gray waited, poised alertly, regaining his breath.
Then Gela lowered his head and sprang forward.
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